


hisashiburi(it has been a while(since i last saw you))

by Crescent_Blues



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Angst, Chronic Pain, Future Fic, Gen, How Do I Tag, I suppose, Post-Canon, Reincarnation, blame it on dawn king/chosen king nonsense, children that shouldn't have weapons but do, found family but it's more like finding yourself?, i guess, its been years oh god, no beta we die like men, the gods and magic are kinda dead but noctis' still got it!, this might be a little unrealistic but shhhhh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-17
Updated: 2019-01-17
Packaged: 2019-10-11 12:34:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17447090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crescent_Blues/pseuds/Crescent_Blues
Summary: Set some time in the future, when the six are names to swear upon with little power, the dawn king is but a legend, and the star scourge is a thing of fantasy, the past lies not-so dormant and sleeping in the hearts of children





	hisashiburi(it has been a while(since i last saw you))

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this ages ago, over the course of maybe a month or so. i just couldn't get the idea out of my head, and i'm pretty proud of it, so i decided to post it.  
> final fantasy makes me feel things and i'm stiLL UPSET ABOUT NOCT DAMN IT!!

Knives are  _ strictly _ prohibited on campus and against school policy.

He knows that, knows the rules for everything he does, from games to school to brushing his teeth, because he  _ has to. _

Before he does anything, before he signs his name or clicks agree, he reads the disclaimer page, reads the bylaws and agreements no one else does.

Before his classmates knew the alphabet he was grabbing for history books, for tomes on the ancient laws of kings, for papers on the long dead starscourge.

Before his peers knew all the months of the year he knew how to make dozens of foods, knew the proper way to dress at a diplomatic meeting, knew the names of every single king or queen Lucis ever had.

His desire to know, it's _ compulsive _ , something that eats at him until it's done, an act he doesn't think about before performing, a strange habit he doesn't recall picking up. It's a blazing fire in his chest, a burning  _ need _ to know as much as he can. It's a beast that cries and wails for him to learn, learn,  _ learn,  _ for him to know, know,  _ know, _ so  _ someone _ doesn't have to.

He thinks he might almost hate it, having to surround himself with knowledge no one else needs to even feel human. 

The words drown out the negative thoughts, crush and stomp the bad dreams, pound the things remembers doing but never has to dust. They chase away the dark dreams of his eyes burning, burning,  _ burning _ , with naught but pitch darkness and cold air for company. They chase away the almost memories of feeling  _ warmth _ and  _ relief _ , mixed with horrible, gut wrenching  _ grief(and the thought of how he'd forgotten what the sun felt like) _ . They chase away the crushing feeling of absolute terror because he'd failed  _ someone,  _ he'd failed  _ them _ , and now  _ they _ were  _ gone. _

_ (He's been afraid of losing his sight since he was a child and been wary of rings his whole life. Whenever he stands in the sun with his eyes closed, it makes his chest tight and his eyes water. Every moment he's spent studying, spent learning, spent fighting tooth and nail to jump grades for more books, more tomes, more papers, it's all done in the buried hope that he maybe he can make up for his forgotten failure.) _

And his mother's never been against it, never thought he should break from his howling want, his burning _ need _ , to learn, to read as much as he possibly could, going so far as to encourage it, even, without quite understanding the all consuming urge he has to  _ know. _

He doesn't quiet think he understands it either.

What he  _ does  _ understand, however, is that, regardless of any memorized school rule, a twin set of knives are currently situated on both sides of his belt, securely tucked into sheathes and hidden under his jacket, in the middle of his afternoon class.

And there they will  _ stay _ .

Because he never leaves home without them,  _ can't _ leave home without them.

When he tries to( _ and _ oh _ has he  _ tried) there's a shriveled up feeling in his chest, twisted and  _ aching _ , like leaving them at home means leaving a part of himself behind.

It's something that was ingrained into his being the  _ moment _ he found them, a whispered voice he almost knows, almost remembers, that says leaving without them means courting death, that leaving himself defenseless is as good as signing up for a first class trip into peril.

So he smuggles them through the doors, holds his breath when he walks in and out of the school _ , _ hides the polished metal under a jacket or sweater, and when it's hot, he rolls up his sleeves. When it's just too warm for a pullover  _ (and it happens far more often than he would wish) _ , he stows them away in his backpack, because it's better than nothing at all.

Weapons are against school policy, and his school record is  _ spotless _ , but if someone saw his knives _ (because they are  _ his  _ regardless of who had them first) _ he'd be in  _ astronomical _ amounts of trouble.

So he aims to never get caught.

And he thinks he's getting rather good at it( _ has to be, needs to be) _ because he's only twelve years old, but after finding the daggers buried but gleaming at the Citadel Monument months earlier, Icendit **_(Ignis)_ ** doesn't think he'll ever be comfortable without them at his sides again.

 

* * *

 

He's never held a firearm in his  _ life _ , but when he grips the handle of the arcade game's gun, it feels like breathing for the first time.

It feels like waking up.

It feels like  _ living _ .

He's not trying that hard, he really isn't, but he also  _ really doesn't have to _ , because there's not a target standing when he runs out of shots, and he ends up breaking the high score that's been on the scoreboard for years.

And he's never had a lot of friends, never been very good at making them, but at some point, in the midst of it all, he ends up surrounded by a crowd, people his age that are yelling  _ for him  _ instead of  _ at him _ .

He thinks that it might almost feel like camaraderie, if it weren't for the hole in his chest whispering that camaraderie wasn't like that at all, but he's been ignoring the pit in his soul for years, and he thinks he can keep ignoring it now.

But when he goes home and shows his dad and sister the pictures he took of all the downed targets he shot, when his dad ruffles his hair and says how proud he is, when his sister picks him up and says he'll be slaying behemoths in no time, when he thinks this is probably one of the best moments of his life, the pit crawls up his throat and into his ears and whispers that  _ this is what real camaraderie is. _

He thinks that for once it might be right.

After that, his dad starts taking him on his hunting trips with his sister, instead of letting him stay with his uncle.

His dad says to never waste a talent, and if his son _ (and that makes his chest tight and warm because he and his sister are adopted but their dad never treats them like anything less than his blood _ ) can shoot better than most of the people he knows as a  _ child _ , then by the old gods he's going to practice until he's the best marksmen in all of Eos before he's out of high school.

He thinks he likes the sound of that.

And even though killing sits wrong in his stomach, the idea of taking a life leaving a bitter taste in his mouth, he absolutely  _ loves _ hitting targets, loves flushing out the animals with trick shots, loves spooking them to where his dad and sister are lying in wait, sword and lance at the ready, because with every shot he feels more and more alive.

He feels in control.

He feels  _ safe. _

And the pit in his chest is  _ content,  _ filled with shells and gunpowder and the  _ click, click, click  _ of rotating barrels.

But he wishes it would tell him why he's so surprised when the gun fires so quickly and smoothly.

Wishes it would tell him why he expects more drag and kickback than there is.

Wishes it would tell him why the gun in his hands doesn't feel  _ right. _

But all of his wishes are forgotten the moment his dad lets him try bows.

They're even harder to shoot than guns and he  _ loves it. _

They're difficult and annoying and make his fingers hurt, and crossbows are somehow  _ harder _ to shoot than regular bows, but when he shoots, he knows skill is the reason he almost never misses.

Knows he makes the mark, makes the target, makes the shot, because he's  _ good. _

And after that, it pulls at his heart, that feeling of being  _ good  _ at something, of being safe, the hole is chest hissing and clawing for him to bring it back, to fill it up with shells and gunpowder and the  _ click, click, click  _ of rotating barrels for  _ weeks. _

It’s still biting at him, making him more skittish and anxious than normal, eating him up, tearing him to pieces when they're at the Citadel Monument, and when he sees two twin pistols, ancient and buried and  _ shining _ , he can't help but take them.

It feels  _ wrong _ to leave them alone for someone else to find.

It feels like leaving a piece of himself.

So he takes them.

He can't feel that biting emptiness in his chest at all when they're around.

Having them, it's the calmest he's ever been in his entire life.

And he knows that weapons are against school policy and that he's only ten, going on eleven, but that doesn't stop Paratus **_(Prompto)_ ** from stowing them in his backpack in rolls of fabric for every class he has, because life without that feeling of safety, of certainty, of  _ living _ , is unimaginable.

 

* * *

 

His insides ache for things he's never done, for sights he's never seen, for people he's never known, and the worst of all his wounds is the weight of a sword he's never held and the sound of a voice he's never heard.

It's a great,  _ gaping _ wound,  _ raw _ and  _ bleeding _ and  _ messy _ , and at times it's almost something he can make himself forget, not because it doesn't hurt, but because he's never known anything different.

It's background noise, a presence so constant he can barely remember a time without it, a hovering shadow he's never been able to lose.

He's like a package deal: call in now, get one kid, plus the additional bonus features,  _ emotional baggage _ and  _ issues for no damn reason _ , for  _ free! _

It’s  _ stupid _ and  _ suffocating _ and he  _ hates it, _ hates how it makes him angry and irritable and _ tired _ , hates how it's always grating at his insides like a hungry beast, clawing him up because he's missing some vital piece of himself he doesn't remember losing.

It's a roaring, raging monster _ ,  _ a creature in his skin that makes him pick and pick and  _ pick  _ at his arms, his face, his chest, because it all  _ burns  _ with wounds that he's never had.

The only cure he's ever found is fighting. It's not permanent, not a long term solution, but the monster's almost silent when he's trading blows. It doesn't matter what kind they are, doesn't matter if it's a stupid verbal argument with no consequences, or if it's a physical altercation resulting in bloody knuckles and broken noses, he just needs to be  _ fighting. _

He needs it like air, because, by the old gods, it's one of the only things that makes him feel human.

He's been going to self-defense lessons since he was five, and part of him can almost breath freely, can almost taste fresh air before he's swallowed by that  _ rage  _ once more, because throwing punches and blocking hits feels  _ right.  _ It's a thrumming pulse in his chest, a routine he never knew he was missing, a part of himself he's finally found.

The only time it's ever been close to truly quite, ever been toeing the line to complacence, was when he'd blocked and thrown a punch at the worst bully in school for making fun of his little sister.

That act of defending, of guarding, of  _ shielding,  _ it's the only time in his life he's ever neared being whole.

But it still  _ picks _ at him, that stupid voice he's never heard. It's like there's a vulture, hulking, huge, and overbearing, breathing down his neck, waiting for the right moment to swoop in and fly away with that near-forgotten memory, that dying voice he's never known.

As he gets older, it almost becomes bearable, almost becomes just another issue for him to shoulder.

He's been bleeding out since he was child, and his dad's always said old wounds only become easier to bear.

But then… then he visits the Citadel Monument.

He visits the Citadel Monument and finds a great-sword with sharp sides and engraved edges and a hilt that fits in his hands perfectly, balanced in a way that says it was  _ made _ for him, quieting the angry beast in his body like a balm.

It's like the monster isn't even there at all.

Sneaking it back from the Citadel is  _ hard _ , because it's bigger than he is, and  _ definitely _ weighs more, but there's not a snowball's chance in  _ Hell _ he's leaving behind a part of himself to rust in the ground.

_ (That night, he sleeps easy for the first time in his life.) _

It's probably illegal to steal from a monument, even if it was just  _ lying there _ , but he's never been a big stickler for rules, never been insistent about following them _ (and  _ gods _ , does he both love and hate that quiet murmur in the back of his mind, another voice he might remember, that says he really ought to, all things considered(all  _ what _ considered?)) _ . He's always been of the strong opinion that what's right might not exactly be legal, but he's also never actively gone out of his way to break the rules _ (he thinks it might be that second voice, that second conscience keeping him in line(and wonders if he should be afraid of the sway this forgotten voice holds, a vice grip on his heart(he doesn't think he knows how))) _ .

But he  _ definitely _ knows that you aren't supposed to bring weapons, much less giant swords to school. He  _ really _ does, he swears, but he just can't leave home without it, can’t feel  _ at ease _ without it, so he wraps it in leather, stows it away with the bats and sticks in his duffel bag, slings it over his shoulder, and hopes no one looks too close.

He's twelve, almost thirteen, and Gladius ** _(Gladiolus)_** isn't about to let some stupid rule make him live in pieces again, not if he can do something about it.

 

* * *

 

Since before he can remember, his bones have ached, and the doctors have never been able to explain  _ why _ .

It's mostly centered on his back, his  _ spine _ , a crooked arc of  _ hurt _ , but the pain makes his legs burn with their own weight, makes his shoulders feel like their coated in lead, makes his head pound like it's being hit with a sledgehammer.

The pain makes it feel as though he's holding the whole of Eos upon his shoulders, the weight of it all crushing him to dust, until he becomes nothing but sand and their star falls into the void of space.

_ (He thinks he knows what that feels like, but he's not sure how.) _

The pain, it's  _ mostly bearable _ when it's warm and sunny, pleasant weather that would have most kids playing outside, except for him, who's just content to not be in pain _ (but when it's cold or raining it's pins and needles times a thousand, twinging and hurting and pulling him to pieces, without a thing he can do about it). _

It's  _ mostly bearable _ , fading to almost nothing, when he's with his neighbor and her aunt, the aches dulling and quieting for some reason he doesn't understand, even if he doesn't really like her brother.

It's  _ mostly bearable _ when he's with his dog, hiding under the covers, warm and soft, radiating heat and licking his face to make the aches calm to minor discomforts.

When the pain in his bones is  _ mostly bearable _ it's only the things he can't see that are left tear him up, and the doctors have never been able to explain those either.

He's been having dreams of voices, of places, of people, of  _ things _ that he's never known or heard or seen since he was baby, and after every single one he wakes up feeling emptier than when he went to sleep.

_ (Every time he's surprised that there had been something left to lose in the first place.) _

The dreams, they're  _ pieces _ of him,  _ someones  _ he can't remember, and all he knows is that life without them  _ hurts _ , the same way his back  _ aches _ , except  _ this time _ there  _ is _ no medicine _ (or healing hands) _ to make it all better.

The pieces, the fading dreams, the far off memories, they're...

They're words for every question he asks, stories for every rainy day, hot meals for when he's feeling down.

They're shoulder jostles for when he's sad, a guardian for all the times he's scared, jabbing quips to fill the air with laughter.

They're late night whispers, jokes that don't make sense, constant rays of sunshine to chase away the clouds.

The hurts got better when his friend moved across the street, filling that niche, that  _ ache _ for kind words, for letters across ages, for stories he never understood but nodded to anyway.

But it's still awful.

It still burns.

It's only when he goes to the Citadel Monument that something starts to make sense.

He steps into the throne room, following his teacher on shaky legs, because his back burns like the Rock of Ravatogh _ itself(how does he know that?) _ , because the throne room is absolutely _ freezing(and no one else seems to notice) _ , because he hurts and just wants to go  _ home(a part of him, buried and forgotten, has been singing  _ home home home _ since he walked through the front gates, and this  _ isn't _ his home, it isn't  _ anybody's _ home, hasn't  _ been  _ anybody's home in  _ two hundred years _ (and  _ gods  _ does that make him  _ sad _ (but  _ why _ ))) _ and stops dead in his tracks.

He sees that gilded throne, that blood red carpet, that tall, winding staircase, and it feels like he's been run through.

_ (It's as though he's been pinned in place with a sword, a hole in his chest, a gaping wound leaving him gasping for breath(it's the only comparison that makes sense).) _

He doesn't see the class move one, barely hears the doors close without him, just stares and stares and  _ star _ es because he's never been here before but he can't shake the feeling that he  _ has. _

He can't shake the feeling, as the pain in his bones quiets to a murmur, as his dog appears from thin air behind him, as his friends’ aunt steps up to his shoulder.

He can't shake the feeling as she takes his hand, frost blooming in her footsteps, and leads him up the steps, his shiba a step behind.

He can't shake the feeling as he slips free of her grasp and climbs the stairs, sure in his footing for the first time in his life.

He can't shake the feeling when he stands at the throne, looks back at the Glacian, and knows he's seen her before _ (met her before). _

He can't shake the feeling when he sees the Crystal, the Astrals’ gift to the extinct line of the Lucii, and gazes at the glittering blue glow in the dark center.

He can't shake the feeling when he raises his hand towards the Crystal, impossibly far away and out of his reach.

He can't shake the feeling when scattered fragments of blue flicker and shine around his hand, familiar and not, before sinking into his skin.

He can't shake the feeling when he turns back and sees nothing but an empty throne room and a shining sword.

He can't shake the feeling when the sword rises, glimmering and ethereal, to point at him, and he's filled with _absolute_ _fear_ before it slams into his chest, sending him stumbling back when it explodes outward to orbit around him, filling his ears with the sound of tinkling glass, before disappearing.

He can't shake the feeling when he descends the winding steps, reaching the bottom just in time for his teacher to burst in looking for him.

He can't shake the feeling as she tells him not to wander off, to stay with the group, because he could get lost in the winding halls and endless staircases.

He can't shake the feeling as she takes him back to the rest of the students, and thinks that he could never lose his way in the Citadel.

He can't shake the feeling as he looks back at the Citadel, and for a moment  _ he isn't himself. _

He can't shake the feeling as he stands before a man that he can't quiet place, one hand on his shoulder and the other on a cane.

He can't shake the feeling as he feels out of place in his skin, too tall and grown and sure in his standing to really be him.

He can't shake the feeling as the steps are filled with the ghosts of men he almost remembers, with the voices of the  _ someones  _ he thinks he's missing.

He can't shake the feeling as he sees his  _ father _ , aged beyond his years and tired, tired  _ tired _ , and hears the words  _ “Walk tall, my son.” _

He can't shake the feeling when he feels a hand on his arm, almost getting to see his  _ someones  _ when he turns around, before it all snaps back into focus and his teacher helps him down the steps, concerned and fluttering.

He can't shake the feeling, that emotion of nostalgia for something he's never known, that sense of deja-vu to something he's never seen, that painful sound of something he's never heard.

It's all he can think about, biting into his heart and consuming his thoughts, before he's finally hit with a startling realization.

Nox **_(Noctis)_ ** is only ten years old but for the first time in his life, his bones don't ache.

**Author's Note:**

> their full names and meanings are:  
> incendit (fire, burning) sciens (knowledgeable)  
> paratus (ready) argeti (silver)  
> gladius (sword) amica (friend)  
> nox (night) clara (bright)


End file.
